A life in the ring aims to save a life from the streets

A former boxer and former gang leader find renewed purpose through their faith.

Charita Goshay CantonRep.com staff writer @cgoshayREP

"Fight the good fight of faith." 1 Timothy 6:12

Pop, pop, pop.

The way a bullet really sounds when it's being fired.

In the late winter of 2005, Raheen Haynes heard it, just as the bone of his upper left leg turned into splinters. Because it could no longer support him, Haynes slid to the porch, the world around him suddenly becoming a cacophony of blood and pain.

Haynes could see the shooter approaching, arm extended, handgun aimed, as another unseen man urged the shooter on: "Kill that mother-(expletive)."

Waiting for the end, he thought about the violence that had framed his life thus far. Haynes had lived his life on a knife's edge, and took pride in his reputation as gangster and street soldier, the toughest of the tough; but he thought about his children and how he'd do anything to keep them from repeating history.

He thought about the simmering anger that had helped him to survive, but also had brought him to this moment. He thought about the phone call he received just before he was shot: It was from the Rev. John W. McIntyre Sr., pastor of Community Life Church of God in Christ at 1104 Walnut Ave. NE, where Haynes attended services whenever he was in Canton.

"He said, 'God's got something for you to do. Don't let something bad happen to you,' " Haynes recalled. "I was smoking a blunt and thought, 'Whatever,' and got off the phone. Two hours later I got (hit) in a drive-by."

Haynes said that when he called McIntyre to tell him what happened, the preacher didn't lecture or hector, but simply replied, 'That don't surprise me.' "

Pop, pop, pop.

The sweet-spot sound that a leather boxing glove makes when the fist inside of it makes solid contact with a trainer's hand, a weight bag, a rib cage.

As the wind and flurries swept Boston's dark streets clean on Dec. 18, 1967, Marion Conner readied himself for battle. In moments, the young man from Canton would emerge onto the creaky main floor of the old Boston Garden, and climb into the ring to face one who seemed to be carved from a single block of mahogany.

No one is invincible, his corner men reminded him. Even Joe Louis lost a few.

Conner simply nodded and kept his gaze fixed to the floor. Quiet by nature, it belied the fire burning within him. Shaking his shoulders, he threw some lightning-quick, phantom punches and swallowed down the sour taste that comes with the unknown. He pushed down the what-ifs because fear will get you hurt.

But the light heavyweight and heavyweight champion of New England was no punching bag, no tomato can. Conner would take the fight to Frazier, just as he did to the others he had faced since turning pro.

THIS JESUS THING

The friendship of Raheen Haynes and Marion Conner is the story of two men who have spent their lives fighting for survival and respect.

Violence arguably is a hard-wired human attribute. Conner proved when channeled properly, it can help to make you a boxing legend. Left unchecked, it can take you to the precipice of death.

A couple of years ago, Haynes hesitantly walked into Conner's church.

"I'm seeing how people are so joyful with this Jesus and God thing," Haynes said. "All I know is how to hurt people and how to sell dope. I don't know nothing about God."

Canton's Community Life Church of God in Christ became a place of refuge for Haynes. Conner told him he was on the right path just by walking through the door.

"He said, 'You're here; all you gotta do is keep coming,' " Haynes said. "You've got to forgive. It's all right to fight, but you gotta do it with your mind. They build prisons for people with your mindset.' "

Conner doesn't work alone. His wife, Emma, is the encourager — and the enforcer.

"When (Haynes) calls and wants to give up, I tell him, 'You never give up; you have a goal to reach and only you can do it,' " she said.

"I don't like to talk much, but there's times when you have to say things that need to be said," her husband added.

THE STREETS

Haynes was born in Warren on May 11, 1975, to a single teenage mother and a man who married someone else. The infant was placed in foster care and taken in by a Canton couple, Cleaster Hagler and the late Rev. Sidney Hagler. They let the tiny boy play the drums at their church, and temporarily named him "Anthony Quinn."

But when Haynes reached preschool age, his maternal grandfather went to court and acquired custody, reuniting Haynes with his birth family, including his mother.

"I'm in this great home, the Haglers want to adopt me, but my mother never would sign the papers," Haynes said. "My grandfather was a good provider, but he died two months later. There were eight people in the house. ... My brother and I had two pair of pants."

Haynes said his foster parents continued to visit him at his new home in Warren, which triggered resentment among his relatives. He was bullied daily by his teenage aunts and uncles, including an incident at age 8 when an aunt stabbed him in the eye with an ice pick.

Haynes said attempts to forge a relationship with his father also failed.

"I was really, really angry," he said. "I couldn't understand why everybody hated me. I asked my father if I could visit him and his family. He bought me a bag of sour-cream-and-onion potato chips, and told me, 'No.' "

Haynes said that at age 11, he left the crowded house on Oak Street, and moved to Youngstown with "some older guys I met on the block."

The men operated a "trap house," where crack cocaine was sold. Haynes slept on a mattress in the corner. He quickly joined the Bloods criminal gang and plunged headfirst into a life soaked in mayhem, big money and just-missed gunshots.

"I was so angry, I was just lashing out at people," he said. "If you had on blue or black, we were at you. We'd go to the mall and just beat on people. I was so ignorant."

THE RING

Conner decided to use his fists to acquire the American dream for his wife and three children. The spark was lit by an older brother who sent him a book on how to box. He was trained by George Milnes, an old-schooler who would help to usher in Canton's golden age of boxing.

After a storied career as a Golden Gloves champion and military service, Conner turned pro in 1962. A list shows that while many of his fights took place in Northeast Ohio, Conner carved out a name for himself along the eastern seaboard in Massachusetts, Maine and New York.

But it was a bout at home that would change everything. On Nov. 17, 1966, Conner scored a ninth-round knockout of Ed "Greatest" Crawford at the Civic Center. Crawford never awoke or recovered from a blood clot on his brain, dying the next day. Those who follow the sport say Conner was never again the same fighter. Still, he kept fighting, logging more than 50 matches during his professional career, finally hanging up the gloves for good in 1976. Post-boxing life included a small business, and jobs with Diebold and the city-run Operation Positive youth program and a boxing-promotion company.

Today, the Conners have a good life. The high-school sweethearts will celebrate their 52nd wedding anniversary on Friday. But life has not been without sorrow. They've lost two of their three children.

Haynes, who's currently a culinary arts major at Stark State College, wrote about Conner in response to an assignment from his writing instructor, Chuck Groves. Students were challenged to write a paper about the person they'd like to spend a day with. Earlier this year, as he watched an "ESPN Classic" broadcast, Haynes had no idea that the boxer shown battling Joe Frazier was the same gentle man he met on Sunday mornings at Community Life Church. And then he heard the name, "Marion Conner."

When Haynes told Groves about the ESPN episode, Groves urged him to invite Conner to speak to the class.

Listening in rapt attention, most of the students had no idea that Canton was once a thriving fight town, and that a former world-class champion has lived among them all their lives.

Even after 40 years, Conner's recall of details about the Joe Frazier fight are as crisp and uncluttered as an uppercut.

Frazier, Conner admitted with a grin, hit him harder than any man. A photo taken of the two men in the aftermath show an animated Frazier, his thick left arm draped around Conner, whose frustration is all over his face.

Groves said Haynes' writing made the visit possible, adding that he's astonished at his talent.

"He doesn't understand the convention of writing," he said. "But when you read his writing, it sounds like a voice-over at the beginning of a movie; I'm not kidding you. It's a discernible voice that you rarely see, even in professional writing."

"Hemingway could have been his teacher, and he would have nothing to do with the way this guy writes," he said. "It's natural. When you read this guy's writing, he's someone who has very few academic skills, but you stand there with your mouth in disbelief: Where does this stuff come from?"

But college has been difficult. Haynes graduated from Warren G. Harding High school in 1992, but not with an education, he said.

"After ninth grade, they didn't see me anymore. I was out making money," he said. "They just gave me a diploma to get rid of me."

MIXED FEELINGS

Haynes became a father at 17, but said didn't see his new daughter for months because he was serving a stretch at the Indian River juvenile prison in Massillon for felonious assault and drug charges, never dreaming she would grow up and save his life.

"I had so much love for the gang; it was a brotherhood, but I'm looking at this little girl," he recalled. "What about when she grows up? I started feeling a different kind of love."

Haynes began to have second thoughts about his gang-banging lifestyle. But the fury generated by memories of the past proved a hard habit to break.

"I had so much anger in me," he said. "I just wanted to hurt people all the time. I started questioning God."

Haynes had more children and married their mother in 2004. But, just like the rest of his life, it was a relationship fraught with conflict and chaos. Haynes has been charged with misdemeanor and felony domestic-violence incidents 10 times since 1999. Three charges were dismissed. Haynes denies abusing his ex-wife, and claims that he was advised to plead guilty to expedite the cases.

"Did I grab her and push her off to keep her from hitting me? Yes. The only thing I'm guilty of is being stupid and trying to keep my family together," he said. "Lesson learned."

Calls to Haynes' ex-wife by The Repository were not returned.

In January 2010, Haynes was arrested at church and charged with felony domestic violence and abduction, following an argument with his wife on the premises.

Haynes' preacher said Haynes' refusal to calm down is what got him into trouble.

"He didn't have to get arrested," McIntyre said. "One of Raheen's problems is his temper; you can't whip everybody. He's a good person, but he lacks self-esteem."

Haynes was convicted and sentenced to six months in the Lima Correctional Institute. The couple divorced in 2012. After Haynes was released, their five children and two grandchildren moved in with him.

"He's a good dad, a hard-working dad," said his son, Sidney, 16. "He's a good cook. And determined. He likes to help people."

Catrina Gaitor, Haynes' girlfriend and the mother of his infant daughter, Miyah, said she sees someone other than an angry man.

"He's smart and he has a kind heart," she said.

'HARD TO DO RIGHT'

There's no fairytale ending here. For Haynes, it's been a difficult year. One daughter got into legal trouble. He was evicted from his previous home because he couldn't afford the rent after being unable to find a job, combined with reductions in disability benefits and child support. He admits he hasn't been to church services since summer.

"It's easy to do wrong. It's hard to do right," he said simply.

McIntyre said he hopes Haynes will consider returning to church.

"I love him," he said.

Emma Conner said she hopes the same, noting that faith in God has sustained her family through life's challenges.

"It wouldn't be possible without God," she said. "He's the only thing that's carried us through."

For Haynes, life has gone from $1,000 a day from selling crack, to catching the bus and going to school while looking for work, made all the more difficult by his criminal record. But he said he hasn't been tempted to turn back. On Tuesday, Haynes met the Conners at Community Life to cook Thanksgiving dinners for the needy.

"I've been there, done that," he said of criminal life. "Prison is big business. If you're looking at all that glamour, look at the big picture.

"The bigger picture is, you gotta work to get anything you want ... I feel bad for kids who don't know anything about God. Even though I'm going through what I'm going through, God's gonna take care of me."

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